


The Heart Asks Pleasure First

by raedbard



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-02
Updated: 2009-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wonders how they find him, if he has some kind of sign on his back: will suck cock for affection, and college tuition; father-figures welcome."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Asks Pleasure First

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: male prostitution, pseudo/implied incest (or incestuous feelings)

Huck has system.

He sits at the bar and watches. He drinks Southern Comfort because he still doesn't feel grown-up enough for Jack Daniel's. He wears thin pale shirts with two buttons open at the neck, or thin dark ones with his blue -- one and only -- dress neck tie; tight shirts, that show the muscles in his back and the skinniness of his arms. Tight pale jeans. A reluctant but alluring smile that he practised in the bathroom mirror during the nights he was too chicken to actually walk out his door. And eyes that knock some of his clients off-balance: a quiet melancholy no different from that in the faces of all the other boys they take; only deeper, and nothing to do with them, or this bar, or that alleyway just outside (_come with me_). It makes some of them angry -- this maddening insistence in his face that there is something going on here beyond the exchange of dollars and a facile high that lingers in their mouths like the taste of petrol in the air outside a filling station. It makes them angry, or at least a little readier with their fists, but Huck is used to being knocked around some. He just wishes he understood why.

He wonders how they find him, if he has some kind of sign on his back: _will suck cock for affection, and college tuition; father-figures welcome_. Just a vibe, perhaps, he figures; just something of the sour tang of bitter brokenness about him that draws them around his corner of the bar like wasps to an open soda can. Huck doesn't blame them. He doesn't much believe in blame.

Could also be something about the dichotomy of this bar's clientele of course -- underfed young men and slick older men with fat wallets. Could be something to do with that as well. Huck doesn't care. He has the rent to pay.

He sits at the bar and watches. And every so often, in between the guys he needs to shower off and the guys who slip out of his mind without even needing to be asked leaving only a couple of bills and a pale ache behind them, he finds what he is looking for.

Dark guys; dark eyes with stories in them. He has often caught himself being friendlier towards men with beards, having to force the smiles less. A restlessness that he understands in his very skin. Voices that tremble the air, creating what Huck imagines as silvery ripples in the air, that close in or dissipate, that he breathes into himself, that linger at the tenderest, most secret places of his body. The ones he dreams about, that he thinks about when he touches himself. The men he looks for.

Tonight doesn't feel particularly promising, and he's been doing this long enough to know now. He gets a feeling about the better nights; he wishes he got a similar feeling about the ones which end in bloody noses and bruised limbs. Tonight feels like a nothing night, which he will finish alone, nursing a slight headache from the kid-whiskey and loud music.

But he's wrong.

The guy is drunk already, or walks like he ought to be. Huck doesn't see him until he is at the bar, waving his index finger at the barman and asking for Jack Daniel's, which is what gets Huck's attention.

His tie is loose around his neck. It's that which catches in Huck's belly, like a fishhook snagging him under the intestines, pulling slightly. He blinks twice, stares at the guy. Dark hair, a beard which is silvering a little, rounded shoulders that look powerful, restless hands that Huck almost wouldn't mind getting on the wrong end of. He closes his eyes on this thought -- a fist socked to the centre of his stomach, all his breath evaporating in the air; those hands cupping his jaw, pulling at his hair; those fingers binding his wrists, holding him still. How it feels to come when there is no oxygen in your lungs. Huck swallows again, opens his eyes.

He almost isn't surprised that the guy is staring at him. It's like some kind of strange alchemical process where his dreams give reality some extra weight -- just a little golden push. But it feels almost predictable, like something he read in a book once and has only just remembered. The guy's mouth twitches; he's smiling, though it doesn't look much like a smile.

"Hi," he says. His voice ripples over the two foot of space between him and Huck.

"Hi," Huck says.

"Is this what you do now?" the man says, quietly. "Pick up men in bars?"

"Do I know you, man?"

The man turns away and laughs softly, without demonstrable amusement. "No, I guess not." He looks up at Huck. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Yeah, I do. So what?"

The man's mouth shrugs. "So, nothing."

"Listen, man -- "

"How about ... how about you come with me?"

He almost sounds scared, anticipatory; like this is a question worlds might turn on.

Huck nods. "Sure."

*

No fists are forthcoming. No places marked out for tomorrow's bruises. He doesn't even force Huck's head down between his thighs; Huck goes without being asked. Something heavy, like a weight of invisible black snow seems to gather around Huck's body when he is underneath this guy with his thighs spread so wide that it's painful, with his cock being rubbed by this guy's belly, with his wrists crossed behind this guy's head: feeling weightless under his weight, feeling like a scatter of atoms across the bed, with his fingers, his tongue and his cock entering Huck's body at the in-between places, filling up the spaces.

Afterwards, the guy spreads his palm over Huck's forehead; presses him down into the bed. Looks at him, really _stares_. Huck looks back, blinded and ecstatic and terrified, feeling the hairline fractures begin to run through his heart. It feels like he always imagined, as a little boy, seeing the face of G-d would be.

The man frowns, as though something in Huck's face is painful for him. Then he kisses the space between Huck's eyebrows, his left cheekbone, his right eye, the right corner of his mouth, touches his tongue to the bridge of Huck's nose and the hollow at his throat.

Huck lies back in the bed, his arms spread out to its sides, and feels himself, feels his heart, explode, scattered wildly across the room.


End file.
